Chapter 9

Wednesday – 15 May

‘It’s possible, of course, that Beth Smallwood was killed by a stranger,’ said Paget. ‘But considering what this woman went through that day, I think it is much more likely that she was killed by someone she knew.’

Paget was in Detective Superintendent Thomas Alcott’s office. The chief inspector had spent a restless night, and his face looked pale beneath the fluorescent lights. Outside, the rain bounced off the window sill. The forecast said it would last all day.

Alcott dragged heavily on his cigarette. ‘What about the son? Could he have killed his mother?’

‘He’s certainly well up on the list,’ said Paget. ‘He did run when he saw us and we haven’t been able to find him. Tregalles tracked down the girl, but she claims she hasn’t seen Lenny since yesterday morning.’

Alcott leaned back in his chair and regarded Paget through a veil of smoke. ‘What about this rape?’ he said. ‘Do you think the boy did that as well?’

‘No. Not if Mrs Turvey’s interpretation of events is anything to go by. And the timing’s wrong. Lenny and the girl weren’t in the house that long, and what Mrs Turvey described was an argument that ended when Lenny hit his mother. He and the girl left very soon after that. She could be wrong, of course, but she keeps a pretty close eye on what goes on, so I’m inclined to believe her version of what happened.

‘But Harry Beecham said something interesting. He said that Gresham would never have given his old job to Beth Smallwood unless she agreed to sleep with him. And in view of Starkie’s findings…’

Alcott shook his head impatiently. ‘He’s hardly likely to say anything good about the man who’d just sacked him, is he?’ he said. ‘Beecham had just lost his job, and it’s been given to a junior. He thought she was his friend and now he believes she stabbed him in the back. He’s lashing out.’

‘That’s not quite the way it came across to me,’ said Paget. ‘According to Starkie, someone had sex with Beth Smallwood, and not all that long before she was killed. And Rachel Fairmont said Beth didn’t leave work until everyone else had gone, which was after five. Mrs Turvey estimated that Beth Smallwood arrived home around six, which is consistent with the bus schedules. I have someone checking with the driver who was on that run that day to see if we can confirm that. Lenny didn’t arrive until around seven, and he was only in the house some fifteen or twenty minutes, again according to Mrs Turvey.’

Paget hitched his chair closer to Alcott’s desk as he made his next point. ‘The Reverend Parslow says he rang Mrs Smallwood just before eight, and he seemed to think she was having her tea when he called. But Starkie says her stomach was virtually empty. In his opinion she hadn’t eaten for some time, possibly since breakfast. So when did this sexual attack, encounter, or whatever it was, take place? Starkie believes it occurred during the afternoon. And where was she in the afternoon? At work.’

He sat back and waited while Alcott stubbed out the cigarette. The superintendent’s face was deeply lined, and his skin was sallow. His eyes, deep-set astride a narrow nose, moved constantly as if afraid of missing something. And in repose, the corners of his mouth turned down, giving the impression that he was perpetually dissatisfied.

‘That’s a very tenuous connection,’ he said brusquely, ‘and it may or may not have anything to do with the murder. We know nothing of this woman’s sex life; she may have been having it off with almost anyone.’

‘We’ve turned up nothing either at her house or at the bank to suggest that she had a social life of any sort, let alone a sex life,’ said Paget, but Alcott brushed that aside.

‘Arthur Gresham is a respected member of the community,’ he said firmly. ‘His wife is the niece of an earl, and quite wealthy in her own right. I happened to meet her some years ago when my youngest daughter wanted a dog. Lilian Gresham breeds Shetland Sheepdogs, and she judges at county dog shows.

‘On the other hand, it looks to me as if you need to find the son. The fact that this Lenny took off like greased lightning when he saw you suggests guilt. Perhaps he went into the church to carry on his argument with his mother, and things got out of hand.’

‘That, too, is possible,’ Paget said carefully, ‘but from what I’ve heard about the boy, something doesn’t add up. He doesn’t strike me as the type to go fiddling around with candlesticks after he’d used one of them to kill his mother. My impression of him is that he might know enough to wipe his prints off, but after that he’d drop the candlestick and run. The same reasoning applies if it was a simple case of robbery by someone as yet unknown.’

Alcott lit another cigarette. ‘Beecham had a motive,’ he pointed out. ‘You said he claimed he didn’t go to the church, but that seems unlikely, considering the state he was in, especially when he had to pass it on his way home.’

‘It seems unlikely to me, too,’ Paget agreed, ‘but I have no proof he’s lying.’

The phone on Alcott’s desk rang. He reached out for it but held his hand in check. ‘Anything else?’ he enquired. Paget shook his head. ‘Right. Keep me informed, then. And don’t waste your time on Gresham. Concentrate on Beecham and Lenny Smallwood. Chances are it’s one of them.’

*   *   *

The incident room that had been set up first thing Tuesday morning was on the ground floor directly below Paget’s own office, and he made his way there now.

Sergeant Ormside was the man in charge, and Paget found him sorting through a stack of paper several inches thick. Len Ormside had a talent for gathering and co-ordinating information. He knew the name of every copper from the highest to the low, but his greatest strength lay in his knowledge of the local district and its people.

The sergeant was a thin, sharp-featured man with ginger hair. His movements were slow and measured, but his mind was quick, and he took no guff from anyone no matter what their rank.

‘Morning, Mr Paget,’ he greeted the chief inspector as he pulled a sheet of paper from the pile in front of him. ‘We’ve got some good news and some bad news on Lenny Smallwood. The good news is that we’ve found him; the bad news is that he’s in hospital. Somebody did a very professional job on him: concussion; fractured wrist; internal injuries, as yet undetermined; fractured jaw; and multiple lacerations. He’s in the operating room now, and it seems unlikely that we’ll be able to talk to him for some time.’

Paget sat down beside the desk. ‘Where was he found?’

‘A farmer found him in a lane about five miles up the Clunbridge road shortly before six this morning. He told the ambulance people he thought the boy had been run over, but the doctor who examined Lenny when he was brought into Casualty said he was certain he’d been beaten. He reckoned Lenny had been thrown out of a car when they were finished with him.’

‘We have someone with him at the hospital?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good. Anything else?’

‘We’re trying to trace the sister, assuming she exists, but no luck so far. I’ve got a list of telephone numbers and addresses Charlie’s people took from Mrs Smallwood’s house – address book, numbers scribbled on calendars and suchlike. They are all being checked out. Starkie was asking about formal identification of the body for the records, but I told him it might take a while, what with young Lenny out of the picture. I suppose we could get the manager of the bank to do it.’

‘No.’ Somehow the thought of Arthur Gresham identifying the body of Beth Smallwood went against the grain. Perhaps it wasn’t rational, but Paget rebelled at the idea. ‘At least, not at this time,’ he went on, seeing the question in the sergent’s eyes. ‘Let’s try to find a relative. Anything else?’

‘Not really. Forensic say they are swamped with work, but they’ll let us know as soon as they have anything.’

‘Right. Now, I’d like you to find out what you can about Beecham and his wife. Beecham claims they’ve had no social life whatsoever since his wife’s been ill, but someone must know something about them. Helen Beecham used to be a pretty good artist. Some of her artist friends may have kept in touch, so you might try that line of enquiry.’

Paget put on his coat. ‘I’m going back to the bank with the material Grace Lovett found at the house yesterday, and to see if I can get more background on Beecham and Mrs Smallwood. And I’ll call in at the hospital on my way back to find out how Lenny Smallwood’s doing.

‘Oh, yes. One other thing. Have Tregalles bring in Lenny’s girlfriend, Tania Costello. Now that Lenny is in a critical condition, she might be a bit more helpful. Chances are she knows who did this to him. Tell Tregalles to lean on her if he has to. Does she have any form?’

‘Soliciting,’ Ormside said. ‘Started when she was thirteen. Nothing in the past six months. Either she’s off the game or she’s learned to keep her head down.’

‘How old is she now?’

‘Seventeen.’

There were so many like her out there, thought Paget, and not a hope in hell of ever getting them off the streets. But that particular problem, as always, would have to wait; he had more pressing matters to attend to at the moment.

*   *   *

Tony Rudge slipped into the room and closed the door behind him. He moved swiftly to the old-fashioned desk and sat down behind it. This was his father’s office, and even though he knew his father was in town this morning, Tony’s palms were sweaty as he began to rummage through the pigeon-holes.

He was nervous and excited. Not just because he was going through his father’s records, but because he knew who had killed Lenny Smallwood’s mum. He knew! – and he could hardly contain himself.

And now he was going to do something about it. This was his big chance, and by God he was going to take it.

He’d hung around the office yesterday, hoping his father would leave, but all he’d managed to do was make his father angry. ‘Got nothing better to do than hang about the place, have you, lad? Bone bloody idle, you are. That back lawn needs cutting, and the potting shed needs clearing, so go on, get on with it. You are in my care, remember.’

As if he were likely to forget. That was one of the conditions of his release: that he work for his father at the guest house until his time was up. Cheap labour – that suited his father very well, Tony thought bitterly. And he still had months to go before he’d be free. After that, he’d be off to London; look up Chalky White. Chalky should be out by then, and he’d told Tony to come and see him. Things would be different then.

They could be different after tonight, as well, he thought, if only he could find what he was looking for. A lot different. This time he would do it on his own. No partners. No one to let him down. No one like Lenny Smallwood. It had been a sad day when he’d teamed up with Lenny, although they’d done all right at first, breaking into houses. Small stuff, easy to carry, easy to unload. There was this bloke who came in from Wolverhampton with his van once a week. He’d give them a list of things he needed next time round and they’d steal to order.

But that wasn’t good enough for Lenny because by then he was snorting coke and he needed more and more money just to buy the stuff. He became careless, and that’s when things went wrong.

On this particular day, Lenny was supposed to be keeping watch, but when Tony went upstairs Lenny plunked himself down in a big armchair, took a snort of coke, and sat watching telly. Unaware that Lenny wasn’t keeping watch, Tony was on his way downstairs, arms full of loot, when the owner walked in and saw him. He was a big man, and there was nowhere for Tony to go. They both just stood there, each as startled as the other. The man didn’t notice Lenny slumped in the chair behind him.

Tony was rooted to the spot, waiting for the inevitable to happen. He’d never been caught before, so chances were he’d get off with nothing more than a slap on the wrist. It wouldn’t be that bad, he told himself. But he’d reckoned without Lenny. The idiot had snatched up a heavy ornament and hit the man on the head with it. The man went down like a stone, and Tony was too paralysed with fear to run.

But Lenny wasn’t. He was already on his way out the back when a second man entered the house. He grabbed Tony and slammed him down so hard he’d broken three ribs, then held him while he telephoned the police.

Fortunately, the owner of the house recovered, but it was touch and go for a few days. The police made it very clear to Tony that if he didn’t give them the name of his accomplice, he could be gone for a very long time indeed. Tony had no qualms about grassing on his partner. Lenny was a nutter; he deserved to be locked up.

But Lenny got off with probation. Even thinking about it now made Tony angry. The bastard had got off, thanks to his mum lying her head off about where he was that night. And since neither man had actually seen Lenny, the only thing the police could charge him with was receiving stolen goods – goods from other robberies he’d been foolish enough to keep at home.

Tony scowled. Well, Lenny’s mum had copped it good and proper. Serve her right. He felt no pity for her.

But what he needed now was a name. He knew the face. Knew where he’d seen it before, but he needed a name, and it should be here somewhere.

Bills, receipts, bookings, letters. Angrily, Tony shoved them back again. He looked down. The filing drawers. Probably in there. He tried the right-hand drawer and found it full of odds and ends: a stapler, three-hole punch, books, a tube of glue, and a batch of empty file-holders. The left-hand drawer was locked, but Tony remembered seeing keys in the shallow middle drawer.

The first one he tried opened the drawer. He found what he was looking for in a file three-quarters of the way back. The document was stapled together with half a dozen others, and the name he wanted was there at the bottom of the page. And legible, thank God! Tony could hardly contain himself as he put the file back in the drawer.

The telephone directory was on the top of the desk. Tony opened it and searched through the pages. Yes! There it was. He closed the book with shaking fingers. Now, all he had to do was set his plan in motion.